


burn the book (that said you took the high road)

by foxika (kylonaberrie)



Series: may it be so, may it be so, may it be so [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Buir Fox, Clone Centric, Clone Trooper Culture (Star Wars), Coruscant Guard, Coruscant Underworld (Star Wars), Familial Relationships, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Binary Thorn (Star Wars), POV Second Person, Platonic Relationships, Slavery, That Coruscant Guard TV Show Y'all Asked For, Trans Clones, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:06:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27430189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylonaberrie/pseuds/foxika
Summary: Things get worse before they get worse, and Commander Fox doesn't have anything left to try but his best.
Relationships: CC-1010 | Fox & Clone Commander Thorn (Star Wars), CC-1010 | Fox & Original Character(s), CC-1010 | Fox & Original Clone Trooper Character(s)
Series: may it be so, may it be so, may it be so [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2004013
Comments: 11
Kudos: 42





	burn the book (that said you took the high road)

**Author's Note:**

> yall i have been up to my ears in loving fox hours!!! this takes place in the same universe as my sister's fic [kick that feeble dream and whisper something like a prayer.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25734475/chapters/62490373) we're working on an ongoing series abt the ways clones look out for each other; kick that feeble dream will be back on updates once sith starts fronting again.
> 
> but until then i have the aux cord in my gay lil pizza hands!!! there was a post going around the fox fandom on tumblr about a coruscant guard tv show (link below in refs vvv) and it seemed pretty popular and also writing this in a tv serial format was just the little kick of inspiration i needed.
> 
> so here it is! burn the book, the coruscant guard tv show! enjoy~
> 
> refs & inspo:
> 
> \- [thatfunkyopposum's fox design,](https://thatfunkyopossum.tumblr.com/post/622755243093000192/the-people-demanded-commander-fox-and-i-have) which is more or less canon to this fic  
> \- the aforementioned [coruscant guard tv show post](https://jedi-grandmaster.tumblr.com/post/631539142690586624/oh-yes-ive-got-more-if-fox-has-to-one-more-shiny) from jedi-grandmasters  
> \- [this post also by jedi-grandmasters](https://jedi-grandmaster.tumblr.com/post/629068975572189184/i-really-dont-like-the-picture-this-paints-for)  
> \- [this art by ippsy](https://ippsy.tumblr.com/post/623103813806653440/in-this-house-we-love-and-respect-commander-fox)  
> \- [spilled red wine by scrapheap_redux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26016412/chapters/63258775)  
> \- [Fortitude by GraceEliz](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25234012/chapters/61167700)  
> \- the title is from [art of doubt by metric](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S025zhIDHPk)
> 
> would like to post my fic as inspired by the two above, but i can't figure out how to credit more than one rip
> 
> disclaimers/notes:
> 
> \- this fic is going to be centered around platonic and familial relationships, but there is gonna be some background romance between side characters, mostly clone x clone, in a context where it's not considered incestuous or otherwise taboo  
> \- there's gonna be a lot of fucking ocs because we know about all of 6 guards  
> \- a lot of this is inspired by me living in america and it sucking, however this is not meant to be a direct metaphor, its just that coping with the horrors of reality is stored in the star wars  
> \- gratuitous me playing fast and loose with canon  
> \- this starts more or less simultaneously with kick that feeble dream, before any of the clone wars episodes  
> \- all drug & chemical names are made up for this fic  
> \- there is not going to be any explicit sex scenes, but there may be discussion of sex or other nsfw/mature content, especially in regards to rape  
> \- please note that most of the warnings listed below are described in second person pov
> 
> content warnings. some of these may not have appeared in the fic as of yet. list may be subject to change; i will alert at the start of new chapters. if i missed something please let me know!
> 
> \- slavery  
> \- abuse, most of it institutionalised  
> \- minor character death  
> \- rape (not committed by a main character)  
> \- murder  
> \- police brutality  
> \- oppressive governments  
> \- palpatine's everything  
> \- child soldiers  
> \- non-sexual nudity  
> \- unhealthy coping mechanisms  
> \- smoking  
> \- social manipulation, abuse of social standing  
> \- classism  
> \- speciesism  
> \- cultural discrimination  
> \- organised crime  
> \- memory loss  
> \- a little more than canon-typical violence  
> \- mind control, mind rape  
> \- financial stressors
> 
> okay, enjoy the fic!! or dont, im not your dad

_ you said don’t let your heart give out; no i won’t let my heart give out _

_ you said don’t let your breath run out; no i won’t let my breath run out _

_ well it’s true i push too hard i guess to use whatever fuel is left _

_ at it’s best it’s all the art of doubt _

[ \-- metric, “art of doubt” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S025zhIDHPk)

Morning is subjective in the senate building. You wake when you can, and you work when you wake. The Senate may sleep but Coruscant doesn't, the war doesn't, the flimsiwork doesn't, and your guard doesn't either. You open your eyes, you roll out of wherever, and you start your goddamn day.

It's your bunk, this time, white undersides of the cabinets above your berth, with the lights still on-- which is always nice. Good start.

You grab your datapad from where you always keep it just under your bunk, shut off the alarm, check the time-- 05:31-- and check your messages. Nothing priority. You have time to get up.

You use your tiny private fresher, scrub your hands, check your bandages, and take a quick sonic. You usually shave your face and clean up your hair when you get this sort of opportunity, but you don't need to change your dressings yet, and you don't want to deal with any little hairs getting in there, ugh. Just gross, and bacta patches are too dear. You're not looking too bad anyway, just a five o'clock shadow, and your hair's fine. Growing out of its style, but that's to be expected. You're fine.

So it's a sonic and no shave, clean blacks on from the small-load cleaning droid on top of the locker, start it running your old ones, armour snapped on in fast and even clicks, helmet on, thermos of old tea in one hand and pad turned on in the other, out into the narrow hallway--

'Morning, Commander.'

'Morning Delphi.' --shift to one side so they can get past, scrolling through the notifications, taking inventory and prioritising on the way over to the--

'Morning Commander.'

'Morning Talbot, morning Granger.' --common room. All the walls are white in the barracks, high ceilings with security cameras embedded, grey easy to clean plastic floors. You navigate around the tables and brothers--

'Morning sir!'

'Morning Ready, Canter, Koto, Pika, Lilybelle.' --and leave your pad and helmet on the white flecked countertop, still reading while your hands top off your tea with what's already made. Screw the thermos lid back on and pop the spout open in the same movement. Grimace.

Fuck. That's caf. That's now caf mixed with day-old tea.

You scowl at the offending beverage machines. They're not even in the wrong places, they're too big to get pushed around much. You just weren't fucking paying attention.

Whatever. It's caffeinated. You drink your punishment and keep scrolling through everything you need to do or allocate that popped up in the few hours you were asleep.

'Did the caf maker do something?' Thorn asks, laughing as they fill up their thermos.

You look at them, scowling. You have way too many items in queue for this. They only look mildly ashamed for being in such a good mood. 'Yes. Contained caf.'

They laugh, hair brushing against their jaw as they tip their head. 'Did someone mix his drinks again?' They steal your thermos, take a sip, make a truly disgusted expression, nose crinkled. 'Oh, ew.'

You have zero sympathy, and bigger fish to fry. You reach for your thermos back, attention already returned to your pad, but your hand meets thin air.

'Morning Commanders.'

'Morning, Sharky. Snapshot.' You glare at Thorn, who is holding your thermos out of your reach.

'Good morning Sharky, Snapshot, how are you two?' They unscrew the lid and dump the contents in the sink.

'Wasting food, Thorn.'

'Doing alright, thanks Commander.'

'Yeah, pretty good.'

'You were  _ not _ going to drink that. Glad to hear it, you have good shifts.' They turn on the sink to start scrubbing out your thermos. You start answering the messages that can be suitably met with a couple sentences and minimal thought.

'Thanks sir.'

'Thanks sir, you too.'

'Do you wash this thing ever, Fox? It smells like dank.'

'It's metal. It retains smells.'

'So that's a no, I don't.'

You take a second to level a look at them over your datapad. 'I'm a good and grown-up CC who knows what an autoclave is.'

'Good job!' They stick the newly rinsed thermos in said autoclave. You hear it humming and them washing their hands. 'I swear, some of those tea leaves were growing.' You hear the autoclave open, the hiss of the teamaker, liquid pouring.

'Morning Commander Thorn, Commander Fox sir. Mind if I get around you?'

You sidestep a couple feet, still typing. 'Morning Hedger. How's the burn looking?'

'Better since a couple days ago, thanks sir.' He rummages in the cupboard next to your head; shuts it. You feel something warm against your fingers and look up to see your thermos, chrome metal and that stupid fox sticker and that stupid little gold star, and Thorn holding it so it brushes your hand.

You sigh, and spare them a small smile. 'Thanks.'

'You're welcome.'

They turn back to their own work. They like to use the commons as an office, make themself easily accessible, but you have no idea how in the however many fucking hells they’re saying there are this time anyone could get anything done out there, so you cloister in your office like usual, which is right off the commons anyways if anyone needs you.

You plop down in your desk chair. Working with your back to the door isn’t ideal, but it’s really the only way your desk fits in this closet they make you call an office. It's taller than it is long or wide, and you work right up next to the file cabinet, your own tea maker and a radio perched on top. The walls are decorated with a scarce few precious objects: the news articles your men occasionally print out to show you they're in them, the ones you print out yourself, the scribbly portrait Senator Nievnec's kid drew of you, the colourful thank you card Senator Stthlytxh sent you for saving their life, the  _ Just hang in there!  _ kitten poster your battalion commanders got you as a joke. In this small of a space the overhead lamp seems very bright, and it reflects in the black plastic dome of the security camera.

Power up the additional screens, brush the contents of your datapad up onto them and start sorting notifications proper. Figure out what you need to address now, what can wait til later, what you can send to your battalion commanders instead, what fits where into your day. Eat a ration bar breakfast rooted out from the cabinets above your desk while you read, big flavourless bites. Start attacking your queue, the new items and everything left over from yesterday and the days before.

Answer questions. File reports. Ask questions. Sort through requisitions. Organise shifts. Triple check the arrangements for the chancellor travelling today. Head off overzealous senators via holo. Answer more questions. Check the budget against the latest fluctuation in bacta prices. Drink tea. Rub at where your hands feel chapped and unpleasant against your gloves. Rearrange shifts. Make notes about said shifts. Request reports. Check the major news sites; protests all over the district. Nothing new. Acknowledge claims. Reroute claims to the Senate Guard, the actual one. Piss, and in the brief break crunch more numbers in your head. Scrub your hands and pick at the dead skin for a second before putting your gloves and gauntlets back on. Head off Senator Taa, who is a new category of overzealous all on his own, via holo. Organise more shifts. Answer more questions, in person for Thorn this time. Request reports. Drink more tea. Agree to meetings. Receive more requisitions. Sort these requisitions. Reach for the top of your file cabinet at the wrong angle and gasp in pain. Be grateful no-one else is here. Breathe. Stand up and get the flimsi you need the old-fashioned way. Sit back down. Pick up your datapad. Answer more questions.

You get a solid four hours of work in before being interrupted; not a bad run. Treasury office wants to talk to you. In person. Again.

You don’t really have any choice but to resign to your fate. You put your helmet on and head out.

There are very few windows in the hallways of the senate building, most of them running internally, concentric circles connected in a symmetrical spiderweb. At least you get some light on your way out of the west wing and into the dome proper. It’s overcast today, sky a solid grey-white wall of clouds. Same colour as the walls in the barracks, but at least the sky still lets light in. You don’t have time to linger. You head where you’re going, out of the relative airiness and into the dark red carpeted hallways, where the ceilings are lower to hide the ductwork and the electronics and the security cameras, and the lighting is subtle and classy and the dark walls are piped with gold. The wound on your side stabs at you while you walk.

Predictably, you don’t get there without interruption. ‘Guard Commander!’

You stop and turn, resigning yourself to the tone of voice. ‘Yes?’

Senator Dallis stands in the doorway to her apartment, shimmery sunset-coloured feathers puffed up angrily. ‘One of your clones has stolen a piece of jewellery from me.’

Ah, this one. You're too used to it to be anything but resigned. From inside the apartment: ‘I swear I didn’t take it, sir! I tried to explain to the senator--’

She cuts an angry hiss at him. ‘Let me come in please, Senator, I’m sure we can sort this out.’

She stalks out of the doorframe and into the apartment. The heavy smell of potted flowers swarms you as you enter, brightly coloured blooms in jewel-tone pots decorating every available corner. Two of your men are standing there in the sitting room nervously, one holding his elbow, the other not facing you or the senator. You don’t immediately recognise them, which places them as your new kids, and elbow-holder’s a sergeant, which makes him Sandwich. Kid with him would be Dreamer then. You swear, they get shinier every time, even after they started shipping out eight year olds. ‘Tell me what’s missing, please, Senator.’

‘A jewelled bracelet, it’s quite valuable.’

‘Can you describe it?’

‘It’s a Nabraxian cuff with seven varieties of jewels.’

‘Were you wearing it, or is it missing from your possessions?’

‘I was wearing it up until we re-entered the apartment.’

‘Have you retraced your steps?’

‘I don’t see why I should have to do that when it clearly--’ You get out your datapad from its hip pouch, and track the security footage of the senator backwards from her entering her apartment. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Checking security footage to confirm what happened to your bracelet. Please give me a minute.’

She does, tapping her foot impatiently. Sandwich and Dreamer are all coiled up with nervous energy, the former about five minutes from bolting if you’re any judge. ‘Sir, I promise we didn’t take it.’

‘Filthy little liar,’ the senator hisses. ‘I will be speaking to the security office about alternative arrangements if this is the treatment I am to receive.’

Don’t do us any favours, you think. She’s just blowing smoke, unfortunately. Nobody with their thumb that deep up their ass would ever give away a setup this good. You watch the senator walking with your two boys down the hallway, keeping an eye on her wrists for a flash of metal and gems. There. Before she entered that fresher.

You turn on your internal helmet comms to the general channel so the senator can’t hear you. ‘Who’s near fresher 209?’

A little chatter and static, then-- ‘I’m a couple hallways away, Sergeant Hero, sir.’

‘Thanks, Sergeant, I need you to go to that fresher and look for a big gaudy bracelet.’

‘Copy.’

You turn off internal comms and watch the footage a little more in case you missed something, but no, you can definitely pick out the bracelet before she went into the fresher, and not after.

‘I hope you intend to do something about this behaviour.’

‘I’ll speak with them, Senator, but right now I’m focusing on recovering your bracelet.’

Sandwich visibly flinches. Fuck, poor kid. His and that other squad have only been here a week, they really don’t know you too well yet. You tossed them in with the other eight year olds on the list of people you can send to do random back and forthing, but you’re gonna have to be more careful, with this pair at least. You make the appropriate notes in your management spreadsheet. Hero hails you on the comm.

‘I found it sir.’

‘Great, thank you. Please bring it to apartment 362 as fast as you can.’

Comms off again. ‘One of my men has located the bracelet and is bringing it here now.’ You’re not gonna try to tell her she dropped it. You’ve been to that rodeo before. You hope Hero speedwalks.

'Well where was it?'

'In a fresher on the second floor.'

'They must have taken and hidden it then.' Her dark eyes narrow.

'Please, sir--' Sandwich sounds on the verge of tears.

'It's taken care of, Senator, we'll have it back to you shortly and I'll make sure these two aren't assigned to you again.' You gesture while you talk, slipping in an  _ all clear _ you hope Sandwich picks up on.

Dallis humphs. 'I want it seen to that they're punished. I'll be speaking to the security office about this.'

'I'll take care of it personally.'

'Very well.' She taps her claws against her forearm, arms crossed. Sandwich is quivering. Dreamer is holding very still, attention fixed on a large painting. You all wait for a couple uncomfortable minutes.

'I really think--'

You're saved from what exactly she thinks by the door chime. You go to answer. Hero is there. He gets a heavily jewelled gold cuff from his hip pouch. 'Here you go sir.'

'Thanks. Wait for me out there.'

You let the door shut and come back in. Dallis chitters as she swans over to take the bracelet from you. 'You two are lucky your commander was here to bail you out,' she says, turning on your boys again, eyes narrowed maliciously.

'Sorry sir,' Sandwich manages.

'That's ma'am!'

'Yes sir-- ma'am. Sorry.'

'Move along, troopers.' You gesture them out the door before the senator can do any more damage.

Hero is waiting in the hallway, out of the way by the door and with an attempt at nonchalance. He's another one of the kids, but a lot less shiny, both in behaviour and how long he's been with you. You nod for him to follow you. You walk the three of them along until you get to an alcove you can tuck yourselves into off to the side, not really private but out of the way by a statue. Sandwich is shaking.

You get them all on internal comms. You can hear Sandwich sniffling staticky now, must've muted his helmet. God. These poor kids. You let out a breath and put your hand on his shoulder. 'It's alright, Sandwich, Dreamer, you're alright. You're not in trouble.'

Sandwich hiccups. 'S--sir?'

'I know you didn't take it. I'm not going to punish either of you, I just needed the senator to think I was going to so she'd get off your case. You're alright.'

He nods shakily. Dreamer is still holding very still. 'You okay Dreamer?'

'Uh.'

You reach out and touch his shoulder as well. He tips slightly into it, leaning weight on your hand. 'Did she hurt either of you?'

Sandwich shakes his head. 'No sir. I mean she kind of grabbed us but it didn't really hurt.'

'Good, I'm glad you're okay. I want you to take the rest of this shift and the next one off, I'll rearrange your schedules. Okay?' You pat his shoulder encouragingly.

'Y-- yes sir.'

'Hero, walk them back to their barracks. Are you needed where you were?'

'I think my men can handle it. I'll check in.'

'Okay, well, if these two need anything, get it to them, then get back to work, and if you're needed immediately see if commander Thorn can't help.'

'Yes sir.'

You give Sandwich and Dreamer each a couple pats before sending them along. Then you get out your datapad. In the fifteen minutes that's elapsed the treasury office has messaged you thrice. You reply that you're on your way and then look up Sandwich and Dreamer's schedules while you walk, find someone else to reassign their next shifts to, and note on your spreadsheet that they're not to be assigned to Dallis or her contingent again. Get a little more work done too, while you have the couple extra minutes it takes to get there.

'Commander.' Treasury Director Oselisk, this pale, pinched looking human, hails you over with a bark when you enter, looking up from a conversation with one of the secretaries. You head straight towards him. 'About time. My office.'

You follow him there. You've been here plenty of times. It could fit about sixteen of your office. The furniture is worth more than you are. 'We need to talk about your budget.'

You groan internally. 'We've been over this before. The senate wants more guards, which means we have to pay for more guards. My men need food, gear, and medical supplies.'

He crosses his arms. 'If you agreed to turn the guard's budget back over to us we wouldn't have to keep having this conversation.'

'Me being in control of our budget means the money gets allocated as efficiently as possible, because I know what we actually need and what we don't. If the senate wants us here, they're going to have to pay for our upkeep.'

He holds up a hand to stop you. 'We're cutting you by fifty-five thousand per quarter.'

You feel something in you snap in panic and anger. You're already cutting it so close to the wire. 'That's not acceptable.'

'You're going to have to make it acceptable. Unless you'd like to relinquish control.'

This is a fucking ultimatum. This petty  _ shabuir _ is holding your men's well-being hostage for a power trip, trying to get back something his office was mismanaging in the first place. 'You're asking us to be either underfed, underequipped, or laid up on a lack of bacta, and either way we're not going to be able to do our jobs. Do you want to explain to two hundred and fifty senators and their contingents why their guard is sick and ineffective?'

'It's not my job to make it work, it's yours. The events office needs the money for diplomatic functions. You know, to end the war?'

That's a low blow, not that you expect any better. 'Then spread it out more. I can do twenty thousand.' It'd suck, but it'd be doable. You're already crunching the numbers, trying to make everything fit.

'I already am spreading it out. We've determined your department has unnecessary expenditures.'

You pull up the financial record from last quarter on your datapad and hold it up to show him. 'Food. Ration bars, cheapest way to get a full spread of nutrients. You switch it to something cheaper, we start getting sick from poor nutrition. You cut down the amount, we start getting sick from being underfed. We're designed to have fast metabolisms, because that's how you get strong, energetic men who can leap up the second danger strikes. You try to feed us otherwise, we get sick, you don't get your precious protection, people die.'

He opens his mouth but you continue. 'Caf and tea, bottom of the barrel quality, cheapest way to get caffeine. My men work sixteen hour days at the minimum, and up into thirty-six hour days when something happens. Caffeine is our alternative to taking breaks. How long of days do you work, Director? You get a lunch break? Smoke breaks? Get to go tuck yourself into bed at night? Get to spend more than three minutes in the fresher at a time?'

'That's--'

'Medical supplies. Bacta is expensive, but it's also the only way to get yourself up and running again in a timely manner. Off-market bacta gets you sick and weak at best, killed at worst. You know what unregulated bacta can do, if you distill it wrong? Burn flesh like acid. Kill cells en masse. Cause infections. Cause cancer. Medications, immunisations, antibiotics, probiotics, different symptoms, but all the same story. We cost eight years and a hundred thousand credits apiece. You wanna factor that into your budget assessment, what we cost to replace if one of us dies? You know how much cheaper it is just to make sure we don't die in the first place, especially from something as easily preventable as medical negligence?'

'Commander!'

'Director.' You're glaring inside your helmet.

'Are you going to do this with your entire expenditure?'

'Explain to you that all of our purchases are necessary? Yes. Arms. Energy packs, stun grenades, smoke b--'

'Fine, you've made your point, I don't have time for this.' But he does have time to talk to you in person, apparently. Asshole. Though it does save you the step of marching down here yourself if he refused to cave to argument via holo. 'But that doesn't change the fact that we don't have the credits, and we need you to take the hit.'

'Just take off the twenty thousand.'

'Forty thousand, and that's the minimum.'

'Fine.' You'll take it. You know better than to turn up whatever ground you can get. You're still filled with a sort of numb dread. How are you going to shave off forty thousand per quarter? This  _ chakaar _ isn't going to give you anything better. Maybe you can find a string you can pull. Convince the events director that security is a vital part of all those diplomatic functions, which it fucking is. They lose their goddamn minds if you don't pull every available man onto those things. Maybe you can get some of your budget back that way, because you think you can pull this off for now, but it  _ won't _ be sustainable long term, especially if they keep insisting on sending you more kids. 'Anything else?'

'No. You're dismissed.'

You leave, angry and numb, but already compartmentalising it away. Just one more fucking thing for the shit pile. You comm your commanders. 'Check in, you four, and stay on the line.'

'Stone checking in.'

'Songbird checking in.'

'Thorn checking in.'

You walk somewhere out of the way, pulling up your budget and financial records, waiting for the click of Delta coming on the line.

There. 'Delta, checking in.'

'Listen, we've got a situation. Treasury office is cutting our budget by forty thousand.'

Thorn: 'What.'

Stone: 'That's ridiculous, they can't expect--'

'They can and they do,' you say. 'They wanted it to be fifty-five.'

Thorn:  _ 'Excuse _ me?'

'Keep your bucket on. It's to make room for the events office's budget, so I'm gonna head there and see if I can't convince them of how vital we are to their precious functions. I want you four to drop what can be dropped and figure out what we can cut, cause there's no way we're getting all forty back.'

Four "Yes sir”s meet you out of synch. 'Just work on ideas and I'll see what I can do.' You hang up.

Well, fuck.

Still, you have no excuse not to work on your queue on the way to the events office. Can't waste six perfectly good minutes. You send your CMO, Tailor, a message:  _ Budget cut incoming. Preserve supplies. _

When you get there you are immediately hailed by one of the assistant event planners, who bustles over. ‘Commander Fox! I was just about to message you, I really need to talk to you about the security arrangements for the dinner next Zhellday.’

Her lekku, lilac against a neat white blouse, curl nervously as she looks up at you. Okay, you guess you're dealing with this now. 'What can I help you with?'

'Well, we've had a couple requests for additional guards, and I want to review the schedule with you, just in case, you know we really need this to go off without a hitch...' she pulls up the information on her datapad and you resign yourself to reassuring her of every detail of the security. At least she doesn't yell, and in fact keeps thanking you. You use your nice voice.

By the time you finish there is no way you'll have time to speak with the events director before your next shift, especially because you're escorting the fucking chancellor out to his cruiser and you'll need the full half hour you have left to make sure you get there without being waylaid. You're just going to have to try to make it back here afterwards.

The chancellor doesn't travel offworld very often, which is good because it's always a security nightmare. There's something going on in his home planet though, you don't really have time to keep up with the exact politics. A platoon of your finest are already set to accompany him, along with his own guard and members of the senate guard. It's all pretty stupid, all the fucking layers of people they pay when they don't pay you. This wouldn't be the first assassination attempt, so it's not the numbers you mind, but. Well. The whole setup is ludicrous, and there's a reason you're the only one of your men who usually deals with the chancellor.

You dig in your hip pouch for a ration bar, attention back on your datapad. You get a message in before the records office comms you. 'Commander Fox speaking.'

'Commander, we have a record that you accessed security camera data on the second and third floors at 09:59 today, can you confirm?' Ah, this asshole. You don't even know their name, but you sure as fuck recognise their voice.

'Yes, that was me.'

'Why were you accessing this data?'

'Senator Dallis misplaced a piece of jewellery and insisted I find it.'

'You can't continue to use security data for frivolous--'

You wish this guy had a better hobby. 'The senator insisted. If you want to go explain to her why I shouldn't've found her precious bracelet, be my guest. Furthermore, I have the authority to access whatever security data I need to in order to do my job. Believe me, I'd prefer if my job didn't include tracking down personal effects, but when there's a suspected robbery it does, so there we are. Anything else?'

'Your purview doesn't include suspected robberies, that's the Senate Guard's jurisdiction.'

'I was there. The senator insisted.'

'The senator should have gone through the proper channels, which you ought to have enforced.'

One of the benefits of helmets is you can roll your eyes and nobody can tell. 'If it matters that much to the records director ze can comm me zirself, but I did not violate any rules, only guidelines, and I did it on the behalf of one of the people we are obligated to serve. Is there anything else? Because I'm on my way to the chancellor's office, and I'm sure we would all hate to keep him waiting.'

'...No. Follow guidelines in the future.'

'I'll do my best.' You hang up. If they have that little work to get done they could at least have the common decency to play games on their datapad or go get a coffee or something instead of wasting your precious time.

No-one around here has any goddamn common decency.

You make it to the vicinity of the chancellor's office without further interruption, and tuck yourself into the nearest storage closet to get twenty minutes of actual goddamn work done, sitting midair with your back and feet braced against the walls so the cleaning droids can get under your legs-- okay, no, your side hurts too much for that. You just tuck yourself out of the way, it's only twenty minutes. You check in with the setup for getting the chancellor out to his ship. Everything's going fine, but there's a lot more protesters than usual today. It's okay, your men can handle it. Just crowds.

When it's three minutes to time you get back out and go check yourself in with the chancellor's secretary. She's busy at the moment, talking into her headset, gives you a small smile of acknowledgement. You wait. She types while she's talking, gives you a nod to scan your wrist and then enter as the door locks shunk open.

The chancellor's office is big, nice carpet and stately statues and a big window overlooking the city, an endless splay of glittering lights and metal and stone and cars and neon billboards. It always feels a little too warm in here. Captain Tanau of the Senate Guard is there already, standing and talking with the man himself. You salute and approach.

'Commander,' Chancellor Palpatine greets in his usual soft tone. It drapes over the room like fabric. He's dressed to travel, small frail pale figure enveloped in an emerald green embroidered cloak, white hair sleek under a subtle circlet you know conceals a miniature forcefield generator. The cloak is armoured. In a photo he'd look like modest Naboo royalty. In person, your attention curves around him like gravity, but you still can never quite manage to reach his eyes.

'Your excellency.'

'Commander,' Tanau says. His voice is nasal in comparison, sharp high cheekbones and sharp canines and hooded eyelids. The Senate Guard wears blue armor, contrasting with your red and white, shoulders straight and proud and a couple inches above yours with your height difference. His helmet is held under one arm. Yours stays on.

'Captain.'

'Has everything been properly arranged?' the chancellor asks, calm and cool as ever.

'Yes. My men are forming a barricade to the landing platform as we speak. Your escort is already prepared to leave.'

'Good. I do appreciate the care you're taking with this. I know you're already very busy.'

The words themselves are innocuous, and more thanks than you usually get-- but there's always something about the chancellor that sets your skin on edge, this warm nervousness at the back of your neck. The dry, lingering voice, and the way he says his words. The cowing-- shyness? shame? you always feel around him, even more powerless than usual. The fact that he holds the highest rank in the whole damn army, and he was the one who made the final call to purchase you and your brothers for his nation, and if he told you to kiss your blaster right in front of him you wouldn't have a goddamn choice.

Also, anyone who survives that long has got to have something up their sleeve, natborn or not. The older someone is the craftier they become. It's just fuckin logic. 'Of course, sir. You're the most important resource the Republic has.'

He smiles. 'Still, Commander, I appreciate a job well done.' He takes a gold chrono from inside of his cloak and checks it. 'Ah, we're right on time. Shall we?'

You walk on either side of him, slowing your paces to match his, guns at perfect parade rest. You're hyper aware of him next to you, his exact positioning relative to you, his breathing. You always breathe in shallow when you're escorting him, ears sharp for anything, nerves sharp for all the myriad things that could go wrong, instincts sharp for all the ways you know being this outclassed can fuck you over. He feels like a glass WMD.

A phalanx of Senate Guard flank you silently as you pass through the east exit, and then you're out in daylight and noise. Your men are holding the barrier with several yards of space on either side, keeping the crowd back, others lining the walkway. The chatter swells in a bubble and pops, reporters and protesters yelling to be heard over each other, the usual homemade _DOWN WITH THE WAR_ and _TRANSPARENCY_ _NOW_ signs bobbing over heads, gesticulating with their owners' shouting. You stay calm and ready. It's a straight shot.

The voices fall clunkily, repetition by repetition into a chant: 'Palpatine, you can't keep hiding! We the people are uniting! Palpatine, you can't keep hiding! We the people are uniting!' It makes it easier to listen for deviations in the noise, for things about to happen. The press is still chattering, cameras flashing, yelling questions out, trying to get your men to respond, but they're as silent as they're trained to be, trying to get the chancellor to respond but nothing can be made out over all the noise.

You breathe a lot easier once the guard have seen him onboard the cruiser, a roar from the crowd as it takes off, a shot of silver against the white sky, and then it's just you and your men and Tanau and the people. You turn and start gesturing for your men to clear the barriers. Reporters shout questions at you and Tanau, the crowd returned to cacophony. Some of them get brave and try to climb over the barriers as they're removed before getting blocked from coming closer by your men. One of the protesters gets close enough for you to hear what they're shouting before they're restrained, voice clear and desperate: 'Commander Fox!'

You don't even turn your head. 'How can you support a wealthy senate while people die in the streets? How can you support a fascist police state that murders our families? What do you ha--' They’re cut off by the swelling noise.

You almost stop. You almost answer.  _ Bite me, _ you want to say.  _ Yell at Tanau. Ask him how he can serve alongside a piece of property like it doesn't make a goddamn difference. Ask him how he can accept more than a living wage while I struggle for my men's right to eat. Ask him how he can stand in support of a slave-holding nation. Storm this fucking building and look every senator in the face and ask them when my family will be free. _

But you don't say anything. You can't. It's not the poor asshole's fault, anyway. The public doesn't know. They're stuck suffering under the same banner you are, with you poised as each others' enemies. Some of these people, brave and righteous and hopeful and angry enough to come yell at the abyss, might even say some of the things you're thinking, if they knew. But they don't.

Your position is all you have. All your men have. The truth isn't worth the cost. Not when the only thing you would gain is vindication.

Every day people stand outside the senate building and hold signs and stare down the people responsible for their suffering. There's faces you recognise among them, not here in this crowd but in the day to day, when it's thin enough for you to pick out individuals. People who come here day after day, like it'll make a difference, or maybe like it's their last hope. You never say anything to them. They say plenty to you. It's been a little over a year now. Nothing has changed. Nothing is going to, until the powers that be say it should.

Sometimes you envy the protesters. Sometimes you feel for them. Sometimes you fear for them. Most of the time you don't feel anything at all. Even your brief anger fades back into the nothingness. The wound in your side bites at you.

You go inside. 'What a shitshow,' Tanau snorts. 'They want more money they should go to work like the rest of us.'

You grunt. You're already back to your datapad, checking your new messages. You have some things to catch up on, and you need to get back to the events office. 'Is it bad out there?' A worried representative hovering nearby with an aide asks.

'Just a little unruly. No danger, but you might want to take a different exit to avoid harassment,' you tell them. 'Do you need an escort?'

'Just to our speeder, yes.'

You catch a couple of your men, Rigup and Starling, coming back inside and set them on it. 'Is something being done about this?' a different waiting representative asks you.

'No, it's a legal protest, they have a right to assemble nonviolently. I suggest you take an escort out with you if you're concerned, do you need me to arrange one?'

'Yes.'

'For how long?'

'Four hours.'

You check the shift schedule for someone you can send. 'You can't give me someone right away like you did for them?'

'I'm sorry for the wait, Representative, I have to see who's available for the next four hours; they only needed an escort to their speeder.' You rearrange a couple people, swap Sojourn and Nitro's shorter shifts to Otterlot and Switchoff to free up the time. 'It's settled, they'll meet you at the east lobby shortly.'

'Thank you,' they sniff, and leave.

You get moving while you have the chance, head for the events office, keep shuffling shifts to accommodate requests until an emergency notification splashes itself across your screen and your comm crackles to life ‘--room 213a, electrical fire, Commander you’re tracking as nearby--’ and you’re running, ignoring the pain in your side, and skid in through the door. It’s an office side room, one of your men directing the last person out, another on the comms. The automatic fire supression system is sticking down out of the ceiling but hasn’t activated for some fucking reason, and a printer is engulfed in flames, climbing up towards the ceiling, you don’t have your  _ fucking _ riot kit--

You strip off your kama and smother the flames with it. ‘Try to activate the suppressors manually!’ you shout at whoever the fuck it is while you grab the kama back and thwack out another part of the fire, harder and harder to see through the smoke, heavy black flame-resistant material too small to really cover the entire thing but fuck if you’re not gonna stamp out what you can before this shit spreads and they pin the property damage on your budget too, flame licking hot at your hands but with your gauntlets to protect you, and this might actually fucking work, the fire is dying down--

You see the water before you can stop it. Another one of your men has appeared out of nowhere to throw the contents of a thermos at the flames, and all you have time to do is yell ‘No, fuck!’ and make a dive for him before the water hits. You tackle him to the ground as the fire spreads to the rug, thick smoke coughing out and filling what’s left of the room. You pick up the idiot and bodily toss him to the other side of the room, just getting him fucking safe since he’s going to be no fucking help, and your side screams. You shove a table off the rug and fold it over to smother itself, press on it like you’re smothering a person, and your hands fucking hurt, and then there’s a loud crash of hard plastic on metal and the hiss of the supression system kicking in.

‘Get the fuck out!’ you scream at the other two, and they waste no time in hurrying to the door and slamming the panel open, and you snatch your kama back from the flames cause fuck if you can afford a new one and fling yourself out after them.

You pant for fresh air, unlocking the autoseal on your helmet and pulling it off so you can gulp it in. ‘Anyone hurt?’

You look between the few secretaries and aides that evacuated the room, seeing fear and shock on their faces, but thankfully no pain. ‘No,’ one of them says, staring back at you with wide eyes, red and recovering from the smoke.

‘All fine here sir,’ says the non-idiot-- Coyote, after a quick glance-- who has also taken his helmet off to breathe. Idiot, an unidentifiable new kid, fuck what is it with these kids today, stands numbly off to the side.

‘Is it going to be okay?’ another secretary asks, his ears twitching nervously.

‘Yes. The fire suppression system kicked in. As far as I could tell only the printer and rug caught on fire, and the system will put them out, stop them from spreading, and show when it’s safe to reenter the room.’ You point at the red light above the door panel. ‘The ventilation system just needs to cycle out the smoke and chemical suppressant.’

‘You saved our lives!’ One of them goes and clasps Coyote’s hands in her own. He laughs, a little overwhelmed but pleased. You probably didn't, all they had to do was leave the fucking room, but you're not going to burst anyone's bubble.

‘Just doing our jobs,’ Coyote laughs.

She clasps your hands next, and it fucking hurts, fuck, your gauntlents apparently weren’t enough on this particular occasion. You don’t flinch though, just smile, and clasp her scaly claws back, ignoring the tight burn pulling at your skin. ‘Our pleasure, ma’am. I recommend all of you visit the in-building medic for smoke exposure. It’s unlikely that there’s any real damage, but it’s a standard precaution.’ You look at Coyote. ‘Escort them?’

‘Course sir.’ He settles his helmet back on.

‘Oh, but my datapad-- I really need to send these reports out--’ one of the secretaries says.

‘The room will be safe to reenter in about fifteen minutes. You should be fine to wait for it to clear and visit medical afterwards. Just don’t enter before the panel displays it to be safe.’

‘I’ll wait with you, I left my purse inside...’

‘You have this handled?’ you ask Coyote, put your own helmet back on, clip your sooty kama back on your belt.

‘Yes sir.’

‘Check in with medbay yourself afterwards.’

‘Yes sir.’

You gesture for idiot to leave with you and start walking him to medical. Your men have your own medbay, seperate from the medical office for the building, blessedly. You locate him on the comms systems with your relative locations. He’s CT-0080-3907-9652, which makes him Sooty, also on Sandwich’s squad.

Goddamnit, what is it with these kids today. They’ve been here all of a week. Not their fault they’re stupid kids that shouldn’t’ve been exported yet. You don’t think you were nearly so stupid at eight, but then again your ID has quintuple zeros in the big digits, you learned from Prime himself, trained with the alphas and had a whole extra year before the war hit to spend racking up secrets and sim hours, and you don’t think the deployment age is the only thing that’s dropped. It’s clear the  _ kaminiise _ want to save time, or the Republic wants them to save time, or both, keep the cash and the war flowing. That means cutting corners on quality.

So, yeah, not his fault he didn’t get a proper education and said education didn’t include  _ don’t fucking throw water on an electrical fire, _ but holy fuck, you thought that one was common sense. You don’t even know what he was doing in that office without his shift partner, because you’re pretty sure you didn’t stick him and Coyote together, as Coyote’s in the  _ can actually handle shit _ category, which all the eight year olds emphatically aren’t. Coyote you aren’t worried about. Coyote didn’t just throw water on an electrical fire.

_ Sooty _ of all people did, but you don’t have enough of a sense of humour left for that.

‘Hey Sooty,’ you tell him over internal comms. He flinches.

‘Sir?’ he squeaks.

‘Don’t suppose anyone ever told you not to use water to put out an electrical fire.’

‘Um. You know. That um. Kind of makes sense when you put it that way I’m sorry!’ You can barely make out his voice as it careens higher pitched. He gasps, holding back tears.

‘It’s okay, just don’t do it again. Are you hurt?’

His response is utterly unintelligible.

‘It’s okay. It’s all okay, no harm done, you’re not in trouble.’ You take him by the upper arm off to the side. ‘Sooty, I need you to breathe for me, okay? Deep breath in.’

You listen to him breathe shakily over the speakers, failing to keep back the waterworks. You keep talking him through it, mentally composing the report to maintenance while you do so. You don’t even know what happened with the fire suppression system, you’ll have to have Coyote send you his own report first. ‘You’re okay, Trooper. Just keep breathing. Good job.’

You give him a few minutes, til the hitch and crackle on the other end of the comm evens out somewhat. ‘Better?’

‘Y--yes. Sir.’

You gesture him along with you again, keep leading him to medbay. He’s not moving like he’s in pain, so if he’s injured it can wait til you get there. You send Coyote a priority request for a report and a note not to send it to maintenance until you’ve okayed it-- you are not intending to share the fact that Sooty exacerbated the fire, and with enough smoke in the room nobody will call you on it-- and start writing yours, ignoring the sharp pain in your hands. Sooty trails you nervously up to the northeast wing.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes Sooty?’

‘Am I in trouble?’

‘No. You’re not in trouble.’

‘Okay.’

You get a sentence down.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes Sooty?’

‘I-- I’m sorry!’

‘It’s okay. You’re forgiven.’

‘Okay.’

Another couple sentences.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes Sooty?’

‘I was-- I mean I was just trying to fix the printer for the nice person lady--’

Ah. So he also started the fire. ‘That’s okay Sooty. It’s just a printer and a rug. Nobody was hurt.’

‘R--right.’

‘Just hold off on the printer fixing in the future, okay? Or the anything fixing. Call maintenance next time.’

‘Yes sir.’

You get to the northeast wing.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes Sooty?’

‘Am I really not in trouble?’

‘You are not in trouble.’

‘O-- okay.’ Beat. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘I’m sorry!’

‘I know you are. It’s okay. You made a mistake, but we dealt with it, so we can keep going now.’

‘Yes sir.’

You stop him just inside the doorway of the section that houses the gym and the medbay, pull him to the side so you’re not blocking the hallway, narrow and white again here. Home territory. You put your hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m sure you’ve made a lot of mistakes in your life before now, Sooty. You’re going to make a lot more. There’s no way to prevent it. But what you can do is learn how to take them in stride. Learn how to deal with the consequences of your own actions just like you deal with any other obstacle. Do you understand?’

‘... Yes sir. I’m sorry.’

You pat his head. Goddamn, this kid. ‘One more mistake for the mistake pile, Sooty, don’t drive yourself crazy over it. Let’s get us to medical.’

Medical is a medium-sized room with a strong smell of disinfectant, and means you have to actually set down your work. It’s not too busy; it usually isn’t, unless something happens. Just a couple handfuls of your men being seen for the latest occupational hazards. Tailor’s on duty, and she bustles right the fuck over. ‘What happened?’

‘Electrical fire. Just need to get myself and Sooty here checked over as a precaution.’

She gives you a look that says she damn well knows you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have to set a good example for the shinies. You give her a tilt of your helmet that says I’m here, aren’t I? ‘You might want to take a look at my hands while you’re at it,’ you add quietly.

She grabs you by the shoulder. ‘Sit.’ Not that you have much choice as she pushes you into a chair. ‘Thyla!’ she signals to another medic over heads, and he comes right on over. ‘Take a look at the kid, electrical fire.’

‘I’m not hurt,’ Sooty explains earnestly. ‘I mean, I’m, a little hurt I guess?’

‘You’re rubbing off on them,’ Thyla scolds as he much more gently shepherds Sooty to another seat. Tailor is already divesting you of your gauntlets, movements quick.

‘You inhale any smoke?’ She plucks your helmet off too and sets it on the ground.

‘No.’

‘Fett’s navel what the fuck did you do to your hands?’

‘Put out a fire.’

She stares at you. You stare back. ‘With your hands.’

‘With my kama.’

_ ‘Manda _ fucking damn it to hell, Commander.’

‘It was an emergency.’

‘You are going to be the death of you.’ She’s moving again, nitrile gloves snapped on, reaching for a tube of burn cream. ‘You’re lucky these aren’t worse.’

‘So you keep telling me.’ You hold out a hand and let her rub the cream in, the cool sting of the bacta almost instant.

‘And one of these days you’re not going to come back in enough pieces for me to tell it to, and then where will we be, hmmn?’

‘Foxy!’ Another medic’s, Thunderstorm’s, voice carries across the light chatter in the room. You know he means her, or you’d have to murder someone; her proper name is Foxtails, it just mutated into Tailor through her misfortune of sharing a name with her CO.

‘What?’ she yells back, head turned, hands still gently massaging yours.

‘What happened to my odroxiclorozoid?’

‘Did Delphi not--’

‘Fuck, I’m sorry,’ Delphi yells back and hurries over to Thunderstorm.

Tailor shakes her head, turning back to you. ‘Let me tell you where we’ll be, it’s begging on the street when whatever jumped up fucko of a replacement they send us fails to juggle the budget like you just failed to juggle fire. Do you want that?’

‘No sir.’

She harrumphs. ‘It’s like the  _ kaminiise _ said, touching fire is a gateway drug to dying horribly.’

‘I think I missed that lesson.’

‘It shows.’

You look at each other. She’s one of the remaining men that have been with you since the beginning, along with Stone and a few dozen others. She presses her mouth tight for a moment but relents, and when she says ‘Other hand,’ it’s not quite as shirtily. You give her your other hand.

‘How’s it looking, Sooty?’ you call over to a few yards away. Sooty’s upper armour has been removed, whether by his own will or Thyla’s. His earnest face is spangled with a dark splotch across his nose and black freckles all down his front, doubtless his namesake. Stretch marks, the kind you get from growing up so fast, line the muscles on his arms and chest, and fuck but he's still skinny.

Babies. They keep sending you babies. You shake yourself.

‘I’m okay sir!’

'Blunt damage on the right shoulder blade,' Thyla tells you. Sooty blushes.

You wince. That was definitely you throwing him, or maybe you tackling him. 'Real sorry about that, Sooty.'

He just looks embarrassed. 'It's okay sir.'

‘Were you tossing the shinies around again?’ Tailor scolds. ‘Shame on you.’

‘Again?’ Sooty asks quietly.

‘It was an emergency,’ you repeat patiently. ‘I needed him moved.’

‘Oh he’s the worst,’ Tailor tells Sooty. ‘Can’t ever just tell anyone to go over there, he has to fucking throw them.’

He giggles. ‘And now you’re encouraging him,’ she rolls her eyes.

‘Sorry sir.’

‘No, I’m teasing honey, you’re fine.’

‘Is it bad?’ you ask Thyla.

‘Well, it’s gonna be one hell of a bruise, but that’s all it’ll be. No smoke inhalation either.’

‘Good. Do I need to excuse him from his next shift?’ You let Tailor position your hands as she bandages them.

‘I’m fine sir,’ Sooty insists.

‘As long as it doesn’t involve manual labour he should be fine.’

‘Alright, I’ll check it. What happened to your shift partner from this one anyway, Sooty?’

‘Oh! We got let out early. He wanted to go nap, but, um, I wanted to explore.’ He blushes further.

You nod. You’re really glad the worst he wound up in was a fire. Fear at those other scenarios grips you briefly, but you shake yourself of it. It didn’t happen. ‘Cut it on the exploring in the future, okay?’

‘Right. Yes sir.’ He kicks his legs nervously, looking down at them.

‘You’re fine, just a note for next time.’

He nods. He looks mortified.

‘Hey Sooty?’

‘Y-yes?’

‘You did good in getting the civilians out as the first response. I saw you helping that aide when I arrived.’

He smiles shyly, picking his head up a little. You give him a gentle smile back. ‘It all turned out alright, Sooty. You’re alright.’

‘Yes sir.’ He bites his lower lip, nervous again.

There's not gonna be any settling this kid, he's just going to have to live it off. 'That's you done,' Tailor tells you. 'Now I expect you to  _ take care _ of those. You do know what those words mean, right?' She levels you a look.

'Yes sir.'

'Go sequester yourself in your office and use voice to text, that's an order, and stop being a dumbass while you're at it.' She strips off her gloves to toss in the autoclave. You sketch her a salute before getting up. Time to take another stab at getting to the events office. You get your gauntlets and helmet back on and head out, check Sooty's next shift and message his partner he'll be late, work and walk fast and hope no-one stops you.

Miracle of miracles, no-one does. You make it there, several more minutes of paperwork under your belt and hands weird and cold and painful under your gauntlets. You absolutely still smell like smoke. If you can, you’ll go back to your quarters next and take a sonic. Maybe get someone with too little to do to get the soot off your armour because that would be a hell you don’t need on your hands and Tailor would kill you, but you can also just blast it off under the sonic and hope for the best. You need to check your dressings, the ones on your side, as well. The wound’s been pulling with pain with every step after tackling Sooty. You might’ve let Tails have a look at it but you have too much to do still, and you don’t need that particular argument. She knows better than to ask certain questions, but you know she puzzles it out anyway, and you know she racks up the clues bit by bit. The fact that you don't actually know how you got it would definitely raise some red flags.

It’s safer if no-one knows what’s going on. You never ask questions either, when you can help it.

You enter the events office, attracting the notice of a few secretaries who then go back to their work. You go straight for the director’s secretary’s desk. ‘I need to speak with the events director.’

Ze looks up at you, a look in hir eyes you’re only too used to, of  _ dear god yet another person wants yet another thing. _ You wait while ze blinks unimpressedly like maybe you’ll go away on your own. ‘You’ll need to schedule a meeting.’

There’s a reason you didn’t schedule a meeting like a good boy, and it’s that it’s so much harder for people to ignore you when you’re right in front of them. Not that they don’t find ways to ignore you anyway, but you have a fighting chance. You usually settle for holo on the first attempt, because you don’t have any goddamn time either, but this is too important. ‘Tell him it’s vital to overall security, effective immediately, and that I need to talk to him as soon as possible.’

Ze doesn't look like ze believes you, which is fair, but ze does get on the comms. You wait, standing in front of hir desk, arms crossed. Enough people make themselves awful fucking nuisiances to you that you know which tactics to employ. Ze turns off the comm. ‘The director is in a meeting right now, it lets out in forty-five minutes. He can give you ten minutes afterwards.’

‘Fine.’ You sit on a bench off to the side and bury your nose in work. Get Coyote’s report and edit it and send it along before anything gets hard for Sooty. Turns out Coyote just whacked the suppression system with a fucking chair and it rebooted. Thank him. Get back at the queue.

Forty-five minutes takes no time at all, with all the shit you have to get done. Fuck but your hands and side hurt, though. You look up at the sound of people exiting the office, the events director having a few parting words with the records director at the door. After ze leaves he spots you and smiles weakly. ‘Commander. You needed a word?’

You’re already standing. ‘Yes, sir, and it’s vital.’

‘Please, come in.’

The door shuts automatically behind you. He sits at his desk, gesturing you to the chair opposite it, and you take it. His green lekku slide across his shoulders as he moves, but otherwise stay still, too schooled to emote. His office is just as ridiculous as the treasury director’s, though nowhere near as ridiculous as the chancellor’s. You’re probably getting soot on the chair. ‘Is everything alright? You look like you were in, ah, quite a scrape.’

‘Just a printer that caught fire, sir, we handled it quickly enough. Just came off of dealing with that; I wanted to speak with you as soon as possible.’

He straightens up professionally. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Treasury Director Oselisk called me to a meeting earlier today. I understand the events office’s budget has needed an increase for further diplomatic measures to end the war.’

He frowns. ‘Yes, I spoke with the treasury director two days ago. Is there a problem with this?’

‘Not at all, sir, I understand the necessity of this office’s work and how important good impressions are in diplomacy. It’s just that Director Oselisk chose to fund it with a large cut to the Guard’s budget. I wouldn’t bother you with this if it weren’t for how closely our offices work together. It seems to me that as we’re your primary security, cutting our budget only rearranges the resources you have access to. You have a greater budget for event planning, but much less of one for security. With the cuts we’re being asked to take, we’re going to have to start choosing between food, medical supplies, and arms, and we’re not an effective security force if we don’t have all three.’

The frown deepens thoughtfully. ‘So, you want me to grant you some of our budget.’

‘Put plainly? Yes. As I say, I wouldn’t bother you with this if I didn’t think it was going to undermine the very goal of the budget reassessment in the first place by compromising security.’

‘Have you already spoken to Director Oselisk about this?’

‘Yes, but he underestimates what it costs to feed and house my men.’

He checks his datapad. ‘I have another meeting shortly, but if you send me your financial reports so I can assess the situation, I can perhaps talk to Director Oselisk myself.’

‘I appreciate it.’ It’s all you’re going to get for now, but it’s better than nothing. You’ll hound him about it if you have to. You stand up. ‘Thank you for your time.’

He smiles a business smile at you. ‘Of course.’ You nod and see yourself out.

You let out a sigh in the hallway. It’s a lot better than it could be. You send him the financial reports right away on the way back to the west barracks.

This time you’re not so lucky as to make it without interruption. ‘Commander Fox?’

You turn at the light voice, already recognising it. ‘Senator Amidala.’ One of the better case scenarios, but you hold your breath that she doesn’t need anything. Then again, if she does, she better fucking tell you, because the opposite is not only an even worse outcome but one you’ve had to wrangle before and would not put past her. She’s wearing a long emerald green dress today. Same colour as the chancellor’s cloak, same home planet. Probably just a coincidence.

‘Is everything quite alright?’ her tone is far from the event director’s, no business, all worry. She falls into step beside you and you walk at her pace. ‘You look singed.’

‘Just a printer that caught fire, Senator. Nothing to be concerned about.’

‘A printer did all this?’ she smiles with amused concern.

‘The automatic suppression system needed a little bit of encouragement. Also, electrical fires produce a lot of smoke.’ Especially when you throw water on them, you don’t say.

‘Was anyone hurt?’

‘Just the printer.’

She smiles softly at the joke.

‘Is everything alright with you?’ you ask to keep the friendliness going. You can’t bring yourself to like any of the senators, but friendliness is so much better than the alternative.

‘Oh. Yes.’ She glances down as she says it. ‘I’m concerned about my people. The fragility of our relationship with the Gungans, coupled with the spreading famine and the threat of the war... I’m sure Chancellor Palpatine’s presence will help, I have the utmost faith in him and frankly I’m needed here more, but I still worry.’ She tucks a few escaped hairs back behind her ear.

‘Of course you’re worried.’ You don’t have emotion to spare for her people, but fuck if you’re not concerned for yours. ‘It’s your job to worry.’

She smiles again, bittersweet. ‘I suppose it is. I don’t want to occupy too much of your time, Commander, but I was hoping I could ask you a couple questions about the dinner next Zhellday? I’ll walk you back to your barracks, I’m sure you’re looking forward to a shower.’

‘Very considerate of you, Senator. Thank you.’ You mean it. Thank  _ Manda _ that’s all she needs. ‘Ask away.’

She says goodbye to you at the barrack doors. Inside the barracks you’re met by Thorn between all the other greetings. ‘Fox-- oh fuck what happened?’

‘Electrical fire. No injuries. Find me someone bored to clean my armour, would you? My hands are fucked.’

‘What happened to your hands? You said no injuries?’

‘I forgot I counted. What’s up with you?’

‘We had a few ideas. I’ll go with you to your quarters, you smell.’

‘Thanks,’ you say dryly.

‘Anytime.’

They trail you the short distance. You go straight to the fresher, leave the door open so you can talk, start taking off your armour. ‘The new shinies are something else. They’re not training them properly anymore, I don’t think.’

‘Oh? Let me do that.’

You don’t want to let them take off your armour but you do like a good teammate. ‘Had to bail one out from the fire. He was useless. Poor kid, he was trying to help but he clearly had no idea what he was doing. I think we’re going to have to hold training ourselves.’

‘When, exactly?’

‘I’ll make it work. I don’t want to send the little  _ di’ku’tikase _ out on shifts if they’re just going to get hurt anyway.’

‘That bad, huh?’

‘That bad. And another pair got hit by a senator accusing them of theft.’

‘Oof, that’s not a good second week shift.’

‘Same squad even. They all seem real shiny, Thorn, like I said I think it’s the training instead of just drawing a few space cases. I want to find out--’ You hiss in pain against your will as they bump against the wound on your side while removing your plackart.

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ you tell them, drawing in breath.

‘You don’t look fine.’

‘It’s handled.’

‘Okay. Also from the fire?’

‘No, from a couple days ago.’

They bite their lip. Thorn’s been here a few months, but they still don’t really have the don’t ask questions thing down. ‘Does it need changing?’

‘Probably.’ You were hoping to get a shave in when you did so, but you don’t really want Thorn doing that for you either, and they won’t let you use your hands in such a fashion while they’re here.

‘Well have a sonic first, I’ll handle your armour and then I’ll do it. Holy fuck, was your kama literally on fire?’

‘Had to use it for a fire blanket.’ You sit on the toilet seat so they can strip your legs without having to crouch and be weird about it.

‘That would explain it. What were you saying, you want to find out?’

‘Right. I want to issue a survey to all the eight year olds, just basic knowledge, find out if there’s any universal gaps.’ You knew from the get-go they were all a bunch of shinies with no experience in making good decisions, but today has really opened your eyes on their potential lack of textbook knowledge as well. And you can cover the decisions thing at least a little, too, while you’re at it. ‘I’ll work on it-- you said you had ideas?’

‘Yes, I’ll tell you when you get out, I don’t want to shout and I need to find you an armour boy. Did you get anywhere with the events office?’

‘Sort of, director’s “looking into it” and I’ll harass him about it if I have to.’ You strip off your top, once again wishing they weren’t here.

‘Something, at least. And, yeah, sir, that needs changing like I need a raise. I’m glad it doesn’t seem to be actively bleeding.’

‘Yeah, I’d feel that. Mind starting the washing droid for me?’ You strip out of your socks, pants, underwear, and fuck if that doesn’t put a lump in your throat even though it’s just Thorn.

‘Sure.’

They leave the fresher with your clothes. You shower and shake yourself. Shit’s getting to you. You can’t let shit get to you. You focus on scrubbing out the smell of smoke as fast as you can.

When you open the door in search of Thorn one of the kids, Bathtub, is there talking to them. He freezes, hand raised to a salute but getting distracted staring halfway there. You laugh kindly at him. 'Yep, I have a dick too.'

He giggles, hand over his mouth. 'Your... your pecs sir... you're so wide...'

'Command track will do that to you.' You spot the clean blacks Thorn left in a pile for you and get your lower half covered.

He nods, mouth open. Thorn is pressing down on a grin.

‘You know, I can dress my own wounds.’

‘Oh, hush. Bathtub, you just get that armour cleaned and it’ll be a huge help to the commander, drop it by his office when you’re done.’ They give him a pat on the head and point you at the toilet seat. ‘You sit.’

You sit and let them see to your wound. As you hear the door close behind Bathtub you say, ‘So. Ideas.’

‘Ideas. Yes. Well, for one, we think cutting down the electricity bill could help. We’re already about as low as we can go on water, but maybe we could look into alternative light sources? Stop using the overhead lights?’

‘Would be easier if we had windows, but go on.’

‘Well, ideally we would get our own solar panels, but as that’s not an option I still think chargeable lights would take less electricity than the overhead lights. And we can be stricter about lights outs and charge preservation.’

‘Okay, do you have a number on that?’

‘No, Stone’s researching lamp options. Arm up.’ You lift your arm higher. ‘Another idea we had was fundraising with the public. You know, the Senate Guard does a yearly calendar. Kind of a gimmick thing.’

‘You think we should do a calendar.’

‘It’s the last quarter of the year, it’s the perfect time to get that started, get it ready to go by the time people are buying for next year. Bathtub’s not kidding about your pecs, sir.’

You give them a pained look. There are not words to describe how much you don’t want your pecs decorating the public’s datapads. Then again, if it would work...

‘Sorry.’

‘No, it’s a good idea... I thought about hiring out people with free shifts as private guards, but the senate would throw such a fucking tizzy.’

‘Yeah, we came to the same conclusion. But people like merch! People like kitsch! And all those movies and comics are really popular. We could make an official Coruscant Guard account on one of those merch printing websites... I mean, even if we only raked in a couple extra thousand that’s not nothing.’

‘Does it cost money to maintain those?’

‘No, they just take most of the profits, but like I said it’d still be something.’

You nod. ‘Okay, so we put a couple guys in charge of merch, and just filter the stuff they come up with. Send it down the chain to find out who’s artistic.’

‘Alrighty. So... for cutting things, there’s really not any wiggle room in the food budget, that one’s going to have to hold. But, sir, I know you don’t like it, but... we’re going to have to cut on both arms and medical supplies. Caf, tea, cigarettes, and toiletries are all so basic and so cheap that cutting them would be silly. Arms and medical are our big expenditures.’

You sigh. ‘I know. The five of us and Tailor need to sit down and review everything in those categories, I’ll see if I can cut all of us room tonight.'

'We already came up with some specifics, we can share them then, hopefully it'll make things go a little faster. Done.' They pat down the last tape of your dressings.

'Thank you. Did you have anything else?'

'No, those were the main points we settled on.' They wash their hands. 'You'll be in your office?'

'As long as I can get away with it, yes. I have a meeting with police leadership at 19:00 at the station.'

They wince. 'Good luck.'

You pull on your shirt. New bandages do feel good, at least. One of the little pleasures you can wring out of life. You grimace back. 'Thanks.'

You do manage to get more work done, get some tea and another ration bar in you, use speech to text to spare your hands even though it slows you down. You get time carved out for a meeting with the necessary people later tonight, among other things. Bathtub brings you your armour and you thank him profusely even though it's far from the best job you've seen, and he grins shyly, the little chin raise all the shinies do when you praise them like they're leaning up into it. You get armoured up, glad not to smell like smoke anymore, and work til you have to leave to get to the district police headquarters.

You take the autopilot lane there so you can get more work done in the speeder. The senate building is so quiet compared to the noise of the city, traffic and music and ads and carrying voices, and the sun has set by now this late in the year, lighting up all the neon even brighter, the world outside the windows of your speeder dark-but-not. You get where you’re going.

Police headquarters is lit up like the rest, white lights instead of colourful neon, bathing the stone and burnished gold building in its heavy architecture. Picketers are outside this place too like always, maybe a few more than usual, and you walk through their shouted comments and questions without looking around. Inside is not much calmer, uniformed police officers going to and fro, stepping around the cleaning droid dutifully booping across the tile floors. You scan your wrist in with the door guard and move past the security gates to the front desk.

‘Guard Commander,’ the secretary says without looking up from her typing. ‘You want room 212b.’

‘Thanks.’ You head for the second floor. People are used to you and your men popping in here by now, or they should be, but you still always get a few turned heads. The room is empty when you get there, just chairs around a conference table and a powered down projector. You check the time on your datapad, you’re a good fifteen minutes early. That’ll be because you actually managed to get down to your speeder without interruption. You get a little more work in.

‘Guard Commander. You’re here early.’

You look up. ‘Accounted for traffic. Evening, Division Chief Hysmith.’

Hysmith slumps down in a chair, brown braid shot with grey sliding and threatening to swing over one shoulder before falling back down his back. ‘Protests all over the district. Completely out of hand.’ You make a note to check the news on that when you get the chance. ‘My boys are still working on containing them. You have trouble with the ones over at the Senate?’

Fuck but you hate him. His boys. They’re not his  _ boys. _ Your boys are boys. ‘No, it’s been peaceful. I have a few men monitoring it but it’s just a crowd.’

He snorts derisively. ‘Fantastic. Your men could lend us a hand, you know.’

‘Isn’t that what we’re here to discuss?’

‘Don’t say that like you ever spare us any hours. We’re here keeping an entire district in line while you’re playing escort.’

It stings more than you’d like it to. ‘It’s a zugzwang, Chief. The senators would call me out for playing policeman.’

He snorts again. There’s a line of aggression in his movements, in the turn of his head, that makes you nervous. You can’t wait for this to be done with. You check the time in your HUD, not wanting to take your eyes off Hysmith to glance at your datapad. Four more minutes til the meeting starts. Maybe he’ll get distracted, maybe the others will be in just as bad of moods. ‘Sure. "Zugzwang."’ He scoffs.

The door opens, thank fuck, and the general counsel comes in. ‘Shoan,’ she greets Hysmith. ‘Been busy.’

‘You can say that again.’

They proceed to have a conversation that completely excludes you, which suits you perfectly, though you still keep a cautious ear out while you get a little more work done and don’t draw attention to yourself like a good piece of furniture. A couple more people enter the room and then Chief Brands comes in. You put away your datapad. He’s human like Hysmith, pale, but older, a few stray wrinkles curving around his mouth and eyes as he smiles briefly at y’all. Various greetings bubble around him. You give him a respectful nod. You don’t feel like raising your voice until you have to, tonight. ‘Evening, Shoan. Tiffany. Ezrick, Blon. Guard Commander. What a day.’ He powers up the projector. ‘Let’s try to get back to it, cut the small talk. Operative distribution.’ A map of the district glows to life on the table.

You listen, pay attention, but a lot of it doesn’t concern you and your men. You add up budget numbers in the back of your mind, trying to think of which medical and military items it’d be safest to cut. 'Guard Commander,' Brands says, and you snap your full attention back. 'I'd like to requisition more hours from you.'

No. No. 'My men are already working sixteen hour days, many of them upwards of that. Any larger of a workload and we'll barely have time to sleep.'

'You can reprioritise. This is just the beginning of what our sources show is going to be a long string of riots. Your men are trained for riot control.'

A panicked nerve is throbbing in your jaw. Not for the first time and far from the last you're extremely grateful for your helmet. 'Tell that to the Senate.'

'You are the highest rung of command in the Coruscant Guard. Who exactly are you suggesting I talk to?'

Everyone else is silent, the tension in the room thickening to a dead stop. Brands is standing; you're not. His eyes are cold. You could laugh if you weren't so scared. Like you're any sort of biggest fish. 'Our job is to protect the Senate, sir. If there's going to be a wave of riots we're going to be needed to keep the senators safe. That's our mandated first priority.'

'You don't need a thousand men for one building.'

What you don't need is this fucking asshole acting like you have any fucking choice with every single fucker who owns you convinced they're the most important duck in the pond. Acting like you should throw your men into danger in the name of oppressing the public. Acting like you're not even droids that have to charge.

'You can take it up with the chancellor. See what his priorities are. But I'm going to do my job before I do yours.'

That was bold, you know it was. Everyone's still. The silence is deathly.

'Don't get mouthy,  _ Commander. _ I'll take this to the chancellor if I have to, if you want your name on the fact I had to bother him.'

It's a joke of a threat. 'Reporting that I'm doing as he ordered? Be my guest.'

The general counsel shifts uncomfortably.

'I want a twenty-five percent increase in hours from you,' Brands presses.

You quickly crunch the numbers. 'I can do ten.'

'You'll do at least twenty.'

'As I said, you'll have to take this up with the chancellor.'

'What about fifteen percent?' the general counsel nervously interjects. 'That shouldn't displease the chancellor until we get a chance to talk to him.'

Brands presses his mouth shut, thinking it over.

You'll take it. 'We can do fifteen.' You can borrow a few squads from a deployment somewhere else on Coruscant if it comes to it, though that’ll mean more mouths to feed.

'...Fine. We'll discuss this again once I've had a chance to speak with the chancellor.'

You talk logistics. Your nerves stay on alert through the rest of the meeting. 'Guard Commander,' Brands says as everyone makes to leave.

You stop. 

'A word?'

'Of course.'

The last person clears the doorway and it slides shut. You hold your body tense and ready.

'Have you forgotten who you are?' he asks quietly. 'Who I am?'

Your mouth goes dry. 'No sir.'

'Then act like it. I'll be speaking to the chancellor about this behaviour.'

'Yes sir.'

You wait to see if there's anything else, braced for impact. He hesitates.

'... You may leave,' he says, eventually. You salute and leave as fast as you dare.

You don't regret standing up to him. No threats will change the fact that your men are overworked and under pressure from all sides, and that a good quarter of them aren't even fit for the field. Let him take it out on you, but you're not going to budge.

Downstairs you're stopped by a young bothan officer as you head for the garage. 'Commander, there's been an incident.'

You're on alert again immediately. 'Nothing dire,' they assure you. 'But a protester broke into the garage and graffitied a few vehicles before we could stop them, including your speeder.'

You relax. That's just the kind of day you're having, isn't it. 'No further sabotage?'

'No sir.'

'Well, thanks for the heads up.' Graffiti's no more than a minor annoyance, and you are beyond caring about annoyances today. You go inspect the damage.

"ACAB" now adorns the door of your speeder in big, neon pink spray painted letters. Yeah. You feel them on that one. You guess this is your speeder now. Not like you can afford to repaint. The horror.

You go home. You have an hour til the meeting with your commanders but you head to the northeast barracks now, where you're holding the meeting in Stone, Delta, and Songbird's shared office, save you the extra trip, and you can just invade early and get some more work done. Always nice to pop in and see what's going on their end anyway.

What’s going on is a large crowd of  _ vode _ has formed in the commons, squished in so close it’s hard to get in the door, chanting and cheering with more standing on tables that were pushed to the corners out of the way, covering the sound of whatever the fuck is happening in the center.

‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’

‘Get him!’

‘Whoooooo!’

‘It’s just Science! It’s just Science!’

You climb up on a table with some others to get a better look-- ‘Commander?’-- and see two of your men, Science and Ostrich, facing off in what the surrounding ring of brothers effectively makes a cage match, each with a buzzing razor they’re struggling to get to the other’s head as they grapple. They’re both missing odd chunks of hair.

‘Hey!’ you bellow over the noise. Everyone falls silent. You make out a quiet “oh shit.” It takes a few seconds more for Science and Ostrich to realise what’s happened and let go of each other to look up at you.

‘There is a gym literally one floor beneath y’all!’ you’re still yelling despite the quiet, ‘And you’re having a fucking hair match in a  _ food preparation space? _ Are you fucking kidding me?’

Rustling noise, various sentiments similar to the earlier oh shit, a few snickers, a few nervous laughs. ‘I do not care whose idea this was but they are now responsible for sanitising this entire room. Science, Ostrich, you two help and if you want to finish this up do it in the fucking gym! Go on! Get!’ You shoo everybody back into motion and climb down off the table. A lot of the younger guys leave with alacrity, but the rest of them are hanging around chatting and ribbing the two fighters and a very welp looking Sampson. ‘Please tell me you were using combs.’

A sheepish grin spreads across Science’s face. Ostrich tries to hide his razor behind his back.

‘No, nevermind, you don’t get to finish the match, you are off hair match privileges and I’m telling Stone as much. Go shave your fucking heads like decent people, you’re shedding. Stop encouraging them.’ You point at one of the ribbers, Takoyaki, who looks suitably shamed. You get an offbeat chorus of “sorry sir”s. You just shake your head. ‘Fuckin idiots. Go on, get on with your nights.’ You wave a few more people along, shepherd Science and Ostrich over to a fresher before continuing your way to the office.

Nobody's there, which you were expecting given the nonsense you just dealt with. This is the largest private room y'all have available, intended to serve as the commanding officer's quarters and office, and briefly yours before you moved to the west wing to cover the less defensible position. You took the bunk out, put in two extra desks and a table so the commanders don't have to work in a shoebox and you have something of a command center, and now it's where y'all meet when there's something for the five, or six of you to discuss.

You take the time to start navigating the logistics of extra shifts at inconvenient times. Stone comes in; you recognise the footsteps. 'Evening, Commander... something happen in the kitchen?'

'Science and Ostrich have lost hair match privileges,' you say without looking up.

'I see.' Beat. 'They were having a hair match in the kitchen.'

'Without combs.'

He sighs a snort. 'Yeah, I'll hold them to that. Fucking Science.' You hear him drop into a seat and start typing on his datapad.

'Fuckin Science,' you agree. 'You know they have a chant for him now?'

'Oh yeah, I've heard it. "It's just Science."'

'Like he's a goddamn show fighter.'

He chuckles. 'How are you holding up?'

'I'm injured and my life sucks. You?'

'Ah, I'm pretty worried about this whole budget fiasco but at least I'm one up on you in the injury department. Anything bad?'

'No, should heal fine if I can avoid exacerbations.'

He snorts. 'Good luck with that, sir.'

'Your confidence in my fate is inspiring.'

'It's the least I can do.'

You work in easy quiet, just the hum of the building and the tap of your gauntlets as you type. Another couple sets of footsteps enter together closer to the meeting. 'Evening, Songbird, Delta. How are y'all doing.'

Delta sits and takes off his helmet. 'Looking forward to a fucking nap. This budget fuckery though-- eugh.'

'They straight up want us to die at this point,' Songbird agrees flatly as they sit down too. 'I'm barely joking.'

'How long you been up, Delta?'

'Uh, thirty-seven? Hours at this point. Been putting out fires all day...'

'Literally?'

'No, no. Just lots of senators making stinks about the protest, and there was this whole thing with the construction crew for Senator Marjoni's apartment renovations, and some of the Senate Guard being weird again...'

You glance up at him. He's resting his head on his hand, datapad out but not typing. 'Listen, Delta, go ahead and take fifteen before the meeting.'

'Okay. Thanks, sir.' He settles his head down on his arms on the table and falls asleep within seconds.

Songbird cuts you a glance that clearly says, poor kid. You nod. Delta's the youngest of leadership, only ten, though he's been stationed here longer than Thorn has. Ten's not too young to serve, but it is too young for all the bullshit you have to put up with in command of this deployment. You wouldn't've appointed him, if you'd had a goddamn say in the matter. He'd've made a better captain: same skills, fewer responsibilities. 'You alright, Songbird?' you ask quietly.

'I'm maintaining.'

You nod and get back to work, all quiet to let Delta sleep. When Thorn comes in you point at Delta and they nod and join y'all. Tailor's late, so you let Delta sleep til she hurries in. 'Apologies, Commander.'

'No worries, I know how it goes. Delta,' you call softly. 'Time to wake up.'

He snuffles in his sleep. 'Commander Delta? CC-2014?' you try louder.

He doesn't wake. You glance at the others apologetically before putting a hand over your mouth to imitate the muffled blare of the wake-up alarms back on Kamino.

Delta wakes with a start. 'Wha-- oh.' Thorn stifles a smile behind their hand. Stone is still working.

'Meeting time, Commander.'

'Yes. Right. Sorry sir.' He blinks the sleep from his eyes.

'You're fine. You need caf?'

'Got some.' He uncaps a blue metal thermos.

'Alright. So--'

There's a knock on the door and then it opens. Hero is there, sans helmet, holding a datapad and out of breath, eyes blown wide. You stand up as everyone else looks around in alarm. 'What is it, Sergeant?'

'I'm sorry, sir, but the news-- I thought you should see--'

He stumbles over to you and you take the datapad. The air is knocked clean from your lungs as you see what's on it.

In a picture heading a news article, surrounded by the red border of a deactivated content warning, is a picture of two of your men, Fangy and Carbon. Their helmets are removed, and there's a blaster wound on both of their foreheads, edges black and cauterized, perfectly centered. They're both hanging by the necks of their blacks in what looks like a city square in the underlevels. The headline reads:  _ Bodies of Two Coruscant Guard Displayed on Public Street in Undercity. _

You've had men die before. It doesn't happen very often, this far from the battlefield, but it happens, and it's always a knife to your heart.

But this wasn't a shootout. This wasn't a skirmish, or an accident, or them throwing themselves between a blaster bolt and the people they're sworn against their wills to protect.

This was an execution.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos make my day! if you want to chat, my star wars blog is [transwomankyloren](https://transwomankyloren.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


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